Fall Out Boy: The Rising Storm
by KarysAndromedaBlack
Summary: When Pete informed him of a crazy group set to end music, Patrick was sure Pete was just trying to scare him. But when a mysterious group drops in on Patrick in the middle of the night, he realizes Pete wasn't so far off. All jokes aside, can Pete swoop in to save his friend with a little help from Andy, Joe, Brendon, and Dallon, or will he be too late?
1. Lost on Willow Avenue

Patrick pulled his fedora down on his light brown hair, shielding his face from the blowing wind while the unzipped sides of his leather jacket blew back in the rising storm. He glanced up at the grey-clouded sky, sure it would start pouring down on him any second.

His phone rang in his pocket. He attempted to wrestle it out with one hand while keeping his fedora from blowing away in the howling gale. He finally got it out. Pete was calling.

He accepted the call and put the phone up to his ear.

"Hey, Pete," he said.

"What's up, Fedorable?" Pete said. "Where are you?"

Patrick checked his surroundings, scanning for a familiar landmark. He couldn't find one, which worried him. Had he missed a turn?

"You know," he said into the phone, "I'm actually not sure."

"You're lost?" Pete exclaimed.

"I think so. Does the street name 'Willow Avenue' sound familiar to you?" Patrick said, finding a street sign.

Pete was silent.

"Petey?" Patrick asked. "You there?"

No answer.

"Hey, Wentz, if this is a joke, I'm gonna kill you," Patrick said.

Nothing.

"Pete?" Patrick asked in a small voice. He looked at his phone. Pete had hung up.

Patrick frowned. Pete never hung up without saying goodbye. Patrick waited for his buddy to call back, saying it was just an accident, but no call came.

Patrick was now genuinely scared. He was lost, Pete was gone, and now it was starting to storm. Leather jackets were not equipped for wind and rain, so he was starting to get cold.

He looked around, putting his phone in his jeans pocket, taking off his fedora, and shoving it in his backpack. He didn't want it to blow away.

He began to hum, turning around and deciding to go back the way he came. He was now drenched and shivering. Pete still didn't call.

After about ten minutes of relentless rain, it began to thunder. Patrick couldn't believe his luck. He searched and searched for a familiar street, but with every slap of his boots on the wet concrete, he got even more lost.

His humming escalated into soft singing, and he turned a corner at the end of the street. He sang louder and louder until the words were pouring out of his soul, up through his heart and out of his mouth, his voice filling the block with the air of a lost love. His predicament forgotten, he closed his eyes and finished the song, panting the slightest bit.

He heard faint clapping from across the street. He opened his green eyes and looked around, and standing on the opposite sidewalk from him was his best friend, Andy Hurley, smiling and clapping.

Patrick's cheeks flushed and he ran across the traffic-less street, pulling his friend into a hug. Andy laughed and said, "I keep telling you to sing like that in a studio or something, you're so good."

"Thanks, Andy," Patrick said. "But I can't do it without a drummer and a couple guitarists."

"Ha, ha," Andy replied humorously, and added, "Have you seen Pete? I went to his house but he didn't answer the door. I figured he was with you."

Patrick's smile vanished without a trace. "He called me earlier, but he hung up without saying goodbye."

Andy frowned. "That's not good. He never does that. Do you think something happened to him?"

"I don't know, I hope he's not—"

Patrick was interrupted by a force slamming into him, wrapping its arms around him, squeezing him so hard he nearly broke a rib.

Patrick pulled away and in front of him stood Pete, breathing hard.

"Pete!" Patrick shouted, throwing his arms around Pete and receiving a tight hug in return. When they finally broke apart, Patrick hit Pete on the side of the head, just above his ear, hard enough for it to sting.

"What was that for?" Pete asked defensively.

"That was for hanging up and leaving me alone in the rain! I thought something happened to you!" Patrick half-shouted, throwing his arms out and nearly hitting Andy in the face.

Pete grabbed Patrick's wrist and brought it down to the latter's side slowly, doing the same with the other. "Just promise me you'll never set foot on Willow Avenue again."

"Okay, but why?" Patrick said, confused.

Pete looked him dead in the eye. "Because that's where it started."

"Where what started, Pete?" Patrick asked.

"That's where the troopers are," Pete replied, dead serious. "There's a cult that wants to end music and they're based there and they're after us, Patrick!"

"Holy smokes," Patrick joked.

Andy laughed quietly.

Pete whirled around and pointed an accusing finger at Andy.

"This is not a laughing matter!" he yelled, Patrick grinning behind him.

Pete let out a roar of frustration. "Fine! Get yourselves killed, see if I care! You'll be eating your words in a matter of hours, I promise you!"

And with that, Pete stormed down the street towards Joe's house.

"Do you really think he was serious?" Andy asked worriedly.

"No," Patrick said firmly. "He's trying to scare us and now he's going to tell Joe all about it."

Andy bit his lip and watched Pete go.

"I don't know," he said. "I think he would've cracked by then."

"Let's just go," Patrick said. "It'll all blow over, joke or otherwise."


	2. Ranting

Andy sat back on the couch while Patrick changed the channel on the TV they were hardly watching, save the occasional glance at the monitor every now and then. They had been talking about Pete and Willow Avenue for an hour. It was now reaching eleven.

"I mean, we've got to check it out, haven't we?" Patrick said. "Just to be sure."

"Is it crazy that I kind of hope he's right?" Andy said quietly.

"Um…yes."

"Well, I just hate seeing you two fight," Andy said. "You're normally inseparable. If he's right, you'll be best friends again."

Patrick bit his lip. "We're still friends."

"Really?" Andy said quietly. "He doesn't seem to think so."

Patrick looked down and frowned. "Holy smokes, Andy."

"Exactly," said Andy, and, almost as an afterthought, put a hand on Patrick's shoulder and said, "Hey. He'll come around."

Patrick smiled a little and nodded, but he still looked worried.

Andy pushed a little on Patrick's shoulder. "Lighten up, Patrick, Brendon and Dallon are visiting from LA tomorrow!"

Patrick immediately brightened. "Oh yeah! Maybe they'll check out Willow with us."

"Danger, risk-taking, and possible death? If Dallon Weekes doesn't want to check that out, then my name isn't Andrew Hurley," Andy said, getting a grin out of Patrick.

Pete paced in front of the couch that Joe sat on, in the middle of ranting animatedly. He waved his hands around, getting deep into his story as he was finishing.

"—and then they tell me they don't believe me and now they're probably going to check it out and they're gonna get kidnapped or—or worse—and if that idiot gets himself killed I don't know what I'll do!" Pete ranted.

"By 'that idiot' you mean your best friend? The one you can't stand to be apart from? The one that's closer to you than any of your siblings? The one you've made up ten million nicknames for? The one that you'd take a bullet for? That idiot?" Joe said, raising an eyebrow at Pete. "The one you just left when you claim he's in insane danger?"

Pete stopped short and looked at Joe.

"Well?" Joe asked.

Pete groaned and fell back into the chair across from Joe's couch.

Joe watched his friend nervously.

Pete tilted his head towards the ceiling and closed his eyes. "So you think I should make up with him?"

"I think you should tell him you're trying to help," Joe said.

"I tried!" Pete said, looking at Joe. "I tried, but he wouldn't listen! He thinks all of this is a joke and it's not, it's the exact opposite of a joke! He is in deep, deep, trouble."

"I know, Pete, God I know," Joe said softly. "I'm worried about him too. Brendon and Dallon are visiting tomorrow. We can talk it through with them. If Bren and Dal believe you, Pat will too."

"But what if they don't?" Pete said. "What if no one believes me until one day, Patrick 'mysteriously disappears' and they've taken him to do God knows what? What if they've killed Patrick before we can get there to save him? What if when we get there he's just lying there…covered in blood…and we're…and we're too late…" Pete faltered, putting his face in his hands.

Joe stared at his friend with a concerned look on his face. Pete was genuinely worried for his best friend's safety, and that was good, but he was getting worked up over it. Just from the look on Pete's face, Joe could tell he was making up a horrible scenario in his head, one that didn't end well at all.

"You need to sleep, Pete," Joe said gently, standing up. "You've had a long day. You can crash here."

"Thanks," Pete said. Joe left him to the couch and went to his room. He lay down and closed his eyes, slipping almost immediately into a calm sleep, at least until the nightmare started.

Patrick paced in his room, thinking hard. If Pete was right, their lives were screwed. If Pete was wrong, their friendship was screwed. Patrick wasn't sure if he could decide between the two. He eventually broke the choices down to either die with Pete or live without him. That didn't help at all.

Of course, he couldn't control it. Either Pete was wrong or Pete was right. He couldn't decide. And of course, Patrick had a tendency to overthink things.

Patrick decided to handle it in a way he understood.

Music.

He sat down at his piano and began to write. As he did, he muttered aloud to himself. "Something about—no, scrap that, centuries? That sounds dramatic...what the heck, why not. What rhymes with told? Gold! Gold rhymes with told."

Three hours later, he had written a complete song.

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We'll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-e-ey,

He-e-e-e-ey ya,

Remember me for centuries

Mummified my teenage dreams

No, it's nothin' wrong with me

The kids are all wrong

The story's all off

Heavy metal broke my heart

Come on, come on and let me in

The bruises on your thighs like my fingerprints

Is this supposed to match

The darkness that you felt?

I never meant for you to fix yourself

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We'll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-e-ey,

He-e-e-e-ey ya,

Remember me for centuries

Can't stop till the whole world knows my name

Cause I was only born inside my dreams

Until you die for me

As long as there's a light

My shadow's over you cause

I, I am the opposite of amnesia

And you're a cherry blossom

You're about to bloom

You look so pretty but you're gone so soon

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We'll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-e-ey,

He-e-e-e-ey ya

Remember me for centuries

We've been here forever

And here's the frozen proof

I could scream forever

We are the poisoned youth

Some legends are told

Some turn to dust or to gold

But you will remember me

Remember me for centuries

And just one mistake

Is all it will take

We'll go down in history

Remember me for centuries

He-e-e-e-ey ya, oh he-e-e-e-ey,

He-e-e-e-ey ya

Remember me for centuries

This was the song he sang until his voice gave up and cracked. He collapsed onto his warm, inviting bed and only managed to take his shoes off before falling asleep on top of the covers.

Pete's nightmare started out as a dream.

All his friends were hanging around in Joe's kitchen. Gerard, his hair blue today, was talking to Dallon and Andy animatedly, using his hands a lot the way that he did. Joe and Brendon were comparing Taylor Swift and Katy Perry. And Patrick sat next to Pete on the counter, grinning and watching Brendon and Joe.

Pete smiled, just from being next to his best friend. Patrick nudged Pete with his elbow and jokingly said, "Who do you think is better?"

"Katy Perry, man," Pete said happily. "Have you heard 'Roar'?"

"Everyone in their right mind has, Pete," Patrick said, nudging him again.

"Very true," Pete agreed.

Suddenly, the room went dark.

"What's going on?" Pete said, but no one answered. "Hey? Anybody?"

Silence.

"Gerard? Brendon? Andy?" Pete said. "Joe? Dallon? Patrick?"

Not even his best friend answered him.

Then, the lights flickered back on and he was alone.

"Guys?" Pete asked. "Guys, this isn't funny."

Suddenly, Pete was in a different place. Coffins lay in a circle around him, all of which the lids were labelled. One lay different than the others, kind of making it a power symbol. This coffin's lid lay open. Pete dreaded what he would find inside. He decided to start with the one behind him.

Gerard Way, it said. Pete swallowed and went to the next one.

Brendon Urie.

Dallon Weekes.

Joe Trohman.

Andy Hurley.

All the way around to the open coffin. Pete knew exactly who lay inside it.

Patrick.

His face was pale and sunken in. His green eyes were open wide. There was a little bit of blood drying on the corner of his mouth. Pete choked and stumbled back, and he opened his eyes to the darkness of Joe's living room.


	3. Guitars & Kidnapping

"How'd you sleep?" Joe asked that morning in the kitchen.

"Terribly," Pete said gloomily.

"Was it the couch or was it a nightmare?" Joe said, taking a sip of coffee.

"Nightmare," Pete said.

"What about?"

Pete described the nightmare.

Joe stayed silent for a while, clearly thinking it through. Pete stared at the counter, warming his hands on his coffee cup but neglecting to take a sip.

"You know what I think, Pete?" Joe said eventually.

Pete looked up at Joe.

"I think if you tell Patrick about your dream, he might just believe you. I was talking to Andy around six this morning and he says Pat was writing until two in the morning."

"But Patrick normally writes only when he's feeling some sort of extreme emotion, like when he's fuming, or when he's breaking down, or when he misses—" Pete broke off, his eyes widening.

Joe nodded. "When he misses something."

Pete looked down at his cup of coffee. As he sighed, it created ripples on the dark surface. He finally looked up at Joe. "I'll go this afternoon. If he was up till two, he'll need to sleep."

"That's my man," Joe said, hitting his shoulder gently. Pete grinned halfheartedly, but his eyes didn't see the cup in front of him anymore. They saw Patrick, pale and lifeless, lying in that awful white coffin.

Joe left the room and Pete was left with his coffee, which was now growing cold.

Patrick woke to a knock on his door. He glanced at the clock. Three in the afternoon. Brilliant. He got up and stumbled to the door, running a hand through his crazy hair, trying to tame it a little bit. He opened the door, and there stood none other that Pete Wentz.

"Hey," Patrick mumbled, still half-asleep. Pete hid a grin.

"Can I talk to you?" Pete asked.

"Sure," Patrick said, stepping aside. "Come on in."

Pete walked past him into the living room they'd been in together so many times, watching a movie, eating too much, or just talking. He sat down in a chair and motioned for Patrick to sit in one as well.

As soon as Patrick sat down, Pete launched into a description of the dream. When he reached the part where Patrick's dead body came in, he took a deep breath and said, "And I looked in the open coffin…and you were in there, and your face was pale and your eyes were open and you had a little smudge of blood on the corner of your mouth—" at this, Patrick brought his fingers up to his mouth subconsciously, and Pete continued, "—and you were dead, Patrick, and I freaked because I was so sure it would be like that in real life," Pete finished, leaning back in his chair.

Patrick stared at Pete as though seeing him in a whole new light. "So you dreamed about all of us…dead…you can draw, right?"

The question came out of the blue, and Pete rolled with it. "Yeah, pretty good, actually."

Patrick disappeared into the next room, and came back with a sketch pad and a pencil. He handed them both to Pete. "Start drawing."

An hour later, Pete was done. He had drawn Patrick so well that it looked like a black-and-white photograph. At a couple of points Pete asked for coloured pencils, and Patrick now saw why. Pete had only coloured Patrick's bright green eyes and the blood on his mouth. Other than that, the picture was colourless.

Patrick leaned over Pete's shoulder to look at the drawing. He sucked in a breath. That looked like him. It so looked like him. Patrick was looking at a picture of his own dead body, and it scared him, knowing Pete had dreamed so vividly he could draw this well hours after the fact.

"Pete," Patrick said quietly.

"Yeah?" Pete asked, still looking down at the paper.

"What do you want to hear?" Patrick asked.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, an apology, 'I believe you,' what?"

"I just want you to promise," Pete said after a beat, "that that particular dream doesn't come true."

"I don't plan for it to, Pete Wentz," Patrick said bravely.

"Good."

Patrick held out his fist to Pete, and Pete immediately bumped it with his own.

"Grab your jacket, Wentz, we're hitting the town," Patrick said after a beat.

"Wait, what?" Pete asked.

"You heard me," said Patrick mischievously, running his hand through his hair. "I have a plan."

"And there they are, the four most terrifying words in the universe," Pete joked, but grabbed his jacket and pulled it on nonetheless.

Patrick disappeared in his room and came back out with a different outfit on, dark jeans, a light grey Green Day tee, a leather jacket, his favourite grey fedora, and a pair of combat boots with the leather worn and soft and peeling away in places.

I need to get him some new boots for Christmas, Pete thought.

"Let's go," Patrick said, and walked out the door, Pete trailing behind him.

"Where are we even going, Patrick?" Pete asked, jogging a little to catch up with him.

Patrick grinned mischievously. "You'll see."

Patrick led Pete all the way to downtown Chicago, about half a mile from Patrick's house, and down a busy street. Patrick had a determined look on his face as he pushed through the crowd, and when he finally stopped, Pete was panting.

In front of them stood Ricky's Guitar Shop, its neon sign dark in places, the walls of the store covered almost completely in guitars of every colour.

"Remember how you broke the string on your bass a week ago?" Patrick asked.

"Patrick Stump," was all Pete could say, and together, they walked inside.

Patrick walked up to the counter and said, "My friend is looking for a new bass guitar."

The man at the counter pointed to the far corner of the store, and rows of bass guitars of blue and red and silver and tons more colours lined the wall.

Pete walked over to the basses and stared up at all of them. He grinned happily as Patrick walked up to join him.

"What colour should I get?" Pete asked.

"I was thinking of getting a white electric guitar, so white's an idea," Patrick said, then pointed to a black guitar with golden flames along the bottom. "That one's really cool."

"Yeah, it is. It looks expensive, though," Pete said solemnly, sure he couldn't get it.

Patrick grinned. "It's on me."

Pete stared at him in awe.

They were interrupted by an employee. He had all-over-the-place black hair, and dark grey eyes, and he wore a leather jacket, black jeans, a Black Veil Brides tee, and combat boots that looked even more beat-up than Patrick's. He looked a few years younger than Patrick and Pete, about nineteen.

"Can I help you?" he said, his tone bored and tired, as if he'd been working hard.

"Yes, sir," Patrick said politely. "How much is that guitar, the one with the golden flames?"

"That one?" the boy said, his eyes drifting up to the guitar. "I think that one's about six hundred. It's been used…twice, I think. It's hard to keep track of all these."

"Ah," Patrick replied, looking around the room. "That's entirely believable."

The boy let out a dry chuckle. "So do you want it?"

Patrick bit his lip. "Yeah. Yes please," he corrected.

The boy smiled. "I'll get the stepladder."

About twenty minutes later, both Patrick and Pete carried brand new guitar cases down the street, walking back into Patrick's house. When they walked through the living room, Patrick leaned to the side and subtly turned over the drawing pad so Pete's drawing couldn't be seen.

Pete set his guitar down on the floor. Patrick set his next to Pete's. They both sat on the couch, and Pete started The Avengers.

Hours later, Pete picked up his guitar and walked home. Patrick shut the door and clicked off the TV, filling the living room with darkness, save the area near the open window. Patrick yawned, pulling off his boots and falling into bed.

He awoke at three in the morning to a crash coming from his kitchen. He sat up, leaning out his bedroom door, looking around the hallway.

He heard quiet, female voices coming from the kitchen. Burglars?

He crept out quietly from his room, picking up a crowbar that Joe had brought to his house one day for absolutely no reason at all, and tiptoed to the kitchen, being careful to stay in the shadows.

There were three girls gathered around the island, talking in hushed voices, holding daggers. Patrick sucked in a nervous breath, and one of the girls jerked her head up.

Patrick swore inside his head. His grip tightened on the crowbar. The girl was now coming towards him. She looked like she didn't see him, then, without warning, she whirled around and stabbed him directly in the stomach.

Patrick gasped in pain. The dagger felt white-hot on his skin, and blood began to pool out of his stomach and stain his shirt. He slowly fell to his knees and the last thing he saw was a girl smirking down at him.


End file.
